


Safe

by Borath



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Consensual Kink, Consensual Violence, M/M, Sticky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borath/pseuds/Borath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron and Rung have been playing with escalating intensity for some time.  They were bound to find a limit, but it's not always the submissive who uses the safeword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

**Author's Note:**

> I've been percolating this in my head for a week or so, and finally got it down tonight. Written in one go, so please excuse mistakes. I'll comb through again later.

Through hundreds of discrete but intensive play sessions, Megatron had never felt close to finding a hard limit. He’d used safe words a few times out of physical necessity: an improperly placed load-bearing cable crushing a gimbal, for example; or a still-healing injury tearing open and breaking him out of his mental space. But things had never gotten so extreme that he felt it was too much. Overwhelming in a most welcoming crush, but never too far.

A month ago, the Lost Light had broken up a skirmish between marauding Decepticons and a band of neutrals. They’d confiscated the entire weapons hold, and Megatron had confiscated some of it from Whirl a few days later. 

One of the nastier implements hadn’t gone back into storage with the rest. It had drawn his eye, and his lingering touch masked as disgusted inspection.

Megatron had told Ultra Magnus that it was a despicable remnant of a more brutal time, and too dangerous to have on a ship currently occupied by Whirl. He would destroy it, he said, and cited two sub-rules and a minor clause to support his removal of the item. Ultra Magnus had been pleased with the paperwork and left the Captain to it.

The batteries in the energon flail were charged, but the implement had needed maintenance. The wide metal hooks at the end of each rubber tail were thick with decaying mesh and energon. He’d unpicked the cyberorganic matter away with his fingers, then soaked the flail in solvents in his personal washrack to clear the last of the detritus. 

It was truly a wicked thing. Energon batons, whips and flails delivered varying intensities of electrical charge in brutal strikes. This flail was modified to dig into armour and mesh, burrowing straight into neural lines and delivering the charge raw, and finally tearing out a spattered array of chunks when the flail was drawn back for the next strike.  
Rung had taken a lot of convincing to even consider the device for future play. When the psychiatrist finally took up the flail, he’d only teased Megatron with its violent use; dragging the cold barbs up his thighs and along his shoulders with murmured threats. 

Tonight, after an already intensive session of absolute submission and brutality, Rung had turned to the flail. 

Within minutes of its application –eight strikes- Megatron was dripping energon in thin, weak rivulets. His optics were offlined-black, his teeth bared around a bare-steel bit-gag that chaffed at the corners of his mouth and pressed his glossa into the back of his throat. Vents whining with system stress, panting through what little space he had between his lips and the gag, Megatron was flying and falling. His backplates were a latticework of white lights and hot-cold tremors; his knees throbbed as hard as his valve from having been kneeling for so long; there were small electrocution burns up the insides of his legs; and the collar around his thick neck had tightened to almost cutting of circulation. 

Psychologically, Rung had been surgically devastating. Megatron had sobbed through the electric shocks that had underscored his failings, his worthlessness, his utter deservingness to be _nothing_ \- and thankful for even that much. He’d expected more hard words when the flail had traced against his hip, but Rung had gone silent.  
Then the blows had eradicated all hope of higher thought, and Megatron had collapsed onto his elbows as the shocks tore the strength from his limbs. He heard his mesh split and tear away, gagging against the bit, everything amplified in the darkness his Master had demanded he occupy.

But he didn’t raise his hand, nor contemplate slapping the deck. He didn’t dither when he needed the safeword, or sign when his mouth was otherwise occupied. Slapping the floor was a decisive, immediate action when the thread-thin line was crossed, but he felt no desire to end the session yet. He was slave to his Master, to the pain bestowed upon him; free within the physical and verbal restraints placed upon him to exist in absolute connection with the sensations of his body.

The strips of the flail landed higher on the ninth blow, splaying across his shoulder and dipping between the gaps in the armour about his neck. They resisted against his mesh when they were pulled, and Megatron felt the sharper sting in his neck immediately before hot wetness sprayed down his arm.   
An energon line. A big one. 

He overloaded so hard his spike hurt.

Rung dropped the flail.

“Red, _red_!” 

Megatron dropped his helm and squeezed his eyes shut, physically blocking out the light before he reactivated his optical relays. Rung had already unfastened the gag by the time he blearily onlined his optics to the mess on the floor. Energon, oral fluid and lubricants were smeared in jagged lines and sweeping circles, punctuated with darker, thicker drips. He stared at the patterns whilst his partner unfastened the collar, pressed a cloth to his neck and fussed about his plates.

“Megatron, _Primus_ , I’m so sorry,” Rung said, stretching one hand towards the emergency repair kit under the Captain’s berth whilst the other held the patch in place. “Are you alright?”

The larger mech shuddered all over, optics shuttering again at Rung’s tone – so different to what he’d become attuned to during the scene.

Rung released a shaky exvent and knelt at the mech’s head. He set the cloth aside to open the packaging on a temporary patch, pressing the gluey side to the exposed mesh. Imperfect, but it would have to do until his partner was brought back up.

“Alright, pet, you’ve done so well,” he crooned, cupping the back of Megatron’s neck in a hold that was both reassuring and possessive. It was as effective as he’d hoped, and the Captain sagged under the touch.

The patch slowed the leak in less than a minute, and would hold until they did a proper home-repair later. It was a condition of their play that all damage inflicted be within the boundaries of what could be concealed cosmetically. Rung had been deeply impressed by Megatron’s skill at mixing healing ointment and paint into a kind of putty that would harden in small wounds; and in his method of drying and sanding layers of paint to make fresh welds and patches blend into the rest of his older, battle-marred armour. Between them, Megatron left his quarters each morning appearing as he’d entered them, though with a lightness in his stance and a fresh energy in his stride.

Gratifying as Rung found their play, he was left as exhausted as he was exhilarated. He’d never known a submissive with such an extreme degree of grateful endurance, and had become quietly addicted to going harder in each session. It was like running full-tilt down a hill that was becoming steeper, until it would eventually become vertical and he would only be falling to a crash. 

Aftercare, which began with tending the damage wrought and often ended with tender kisses and not a micron of space between their bodies, was as much for him as it was his submissive.

Rung had fallen out of his dominant space with all the abrupt collapse of a black hole at the sight of so much energon at once. Megatron, however, was still flying, and primitively confused by the sudden change.

The smaller mech cupped his face and lifted it, drawing his thumbs down the bruises left by the gag at the corners of his mouth. “Such a good mech. So strong. Powerful and strong.”

Megatron inhaled mightily, held the cooler air for several seconds and then released it slowly. He repeated the come-down ventilation twice more before licking his lips and nodding.

Rung kept one hand on a pale cheek, the other stroking down Megatron’s shoulder and arm. A hard twitch, too much of a soft sensation, and the psychiatrist immediately withdrew his hand. He waited a moment for the mech to recover, and then firmly placed his hand across the one braced closest to him on the decking.

“You did wonderfully, Megatron,” he went on, pressing gentle assurance and safety in his field to amplify his tone. It was slow work to coax him back when he was this deep, but Rung was patient and back on familiar ground. “You came apart so exquisitely, so completely. You’re in perfect control of yourself. You’re confident, beautiful and powerful.”

Silence as Rung let his partner absorb that in increments; to take the positivity and doting touches laid against him and pull the tattered threads of himself back together. Finally there was a shift, some power swelling in Megatron’s neck, and he raised his helm a minute but monumental degree. Red light appeared in slits, and his glossa worked inside his dry mouth when he swallowed.

“And yours,” Megatron croaked, optics flickering up to meet Rung’s gaze for a bare fraction of a second. His lips twitched towards a smile, but went no further.

Rung’s smile was genuine, and whole enough for them both. He nodded, aware that Megatron was watching him in his peripheral vision for cues.

“Yes. And mine.”

Megatron chuffed a noise somewhere between relief and humour, slowly slumping his weight forward until his helm was guided into Rung’s lap. The psychiatrist took more patches from the repair kit, humming softly to himself, whilst a large black hand absently stroked and petted his foot.


End file.
